


Stay Close (for fear of losing you)

by BetweenLines55



Series: A Dusty Bedroom in London [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, Drinking, I never really finished this but I like how I ended it????, M/M, Remus fixes everything with tea, Rooming with Buckbeak, Sirius fixes everything with whiskey, That poor hippogriff sees ALL, set during OotP, wolfstar, written literal years ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 20:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11631393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenLines55/pseuds/BetweenLines55
Summary: Set during Ootp; Sirius has changed during his stint in Azkaban, but not to the point where he doesn't need Remus anymore. Remus doesn't seem to agree. A little sad and a little angsty.Literally found this in a folder on my computer and forgot how much I liked it!





	Stay Close (for fear of losing you)

Sirius has never had so much and so little time in the world.

Entire days are spent lazing around the house, with only a hippogriff and the quiet, barely-there footsteps of Remus as he makes the floor boards creak with his movement throughout the house. Remus tries his best to be quiet, to not disturb Sirius and his brooding (brooding, Sirius perfected at a very young age), and not to make himself noticeable, but Remus is a hard person to forget, and he’s constantly hitting his head on the low hanging light over the stairwell.

Sirius had at one point offered to have Kreacher shorten the chain, but never got around to asking. That’s how most things go nowadays; thoughts of brilliance will hit him at all hours, but they’re never followed through. Half-baked, Remus would say. Whatever that means.

Honestly, Sirius just wishes that Remus would come into his bedroom and comfort him. Or invite Sirius into his bed. Sirius wants the other man to hold him like he used to, with Sirius’ face pressed against Remus pulse point, and Remus’ skinny wrists brushing across the lower expanse of Sirius’ back. Remus, whose warm voice was probably the cure to the common cold, wouldn’t even look at him.

Remus, who acted like Azkaban had changed Sirius so much that even his most basic attachment to Remus had been altered beyond repair. Like he was a stranger in the presence of a man who used to be one of his closest confidents. The man he’d shared so much of his life, his love, with.

Of course he’d moved on, Sirius tells himself during these long spells where it was just him and his thoughts and the occasional snuffle-snort of the hippogriff he’s boarding with. Remus is a well-adjusted adult, a fearless predator at the worst of times, a rational thinker at the best. It’s probable that Remus just didn’t want to hurt Sirius anymore, Sirius who couldn’t move on and was just…stuck. Stuck on Remus. Stuck in this Merlin forsaken house.

When thoughts like this hit, Sirius first turns to the bottle of firewhiskey he’s sure to keep replenished, sitting under the window.

Twelve years of being sober is easily the reason that alcohol is so quick to affect him now. Liquid confidence is the only kind of confidence he has in this house. The only thing that can get him to his feet nowadays and make him make a fool of himself in front of Remus.

Sirius stumbles down the steps, head an inch or two below the hanging light in the stairwell. He can hear Remus softly puttering about the kitchen, possibly, probably fixing himself a cuppa because that’s what Remus does best. That, and read. Remus is very good a reading. And holding people. And cuddling. And Remus is just very good at things in general.

Not so much himself, but.

Remus immediately stiffens when Sirius wraps his arms around his waist. He sighs, though his chest doesn’t relax, and says, “Sirius, you’re drunk. Go back to bed and sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“I’ll help you up the stairs then.”

“No, Moony.” Sirius says, flustered and angry that Remus fails to see his point, fails to see what he’s trying so hard to convey, “I can’t, I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I need you, Moony.”

Being drunk seems like the only way Sirius can deal with things these days. It brings down his manic energy. Makes everything sluggish enough for him to put things in perspective. Perspective like he’s going to die soon, he knows it. Knows that he’s going to leave Remus. Leave Remus when he needs Remus and although he may not be completely certain that Remus needs him as well, Sirius is pretty damn certain that there’s still a part of Remus that needs him just as much as he used to. It’s in there, the way he used to hold Sirius still ingrained in Remus’ muscle memory, though hopefully not too far down in Remus’ conscience.

“You’re drunk, Sirius. You get horny and maudlin when you’re drunk. Just go to bed. I can get you a sleeping draught.”

“No!” Sirius half-shouts and blatantly startles Remus. “No. No. Just hold me. Just make me feel better. Please. Please. I need you.”

He does get horny and maudlin when he’s drunk. Remus is right. Remus is always so _right_ , but that doesn’t mean that he gets to win. Never, never.  
Remus has turned around and looked into his eyes and Sirius knows that he’s basically won. Remus was always a goner when it came to Sirius’ puppy eyes, only enhanced by the watery, hazy drunkenness that clouds them now.

“Alright,” Remus says finally, “Alright, you win, you old dog. C’mon. Let’s get you upstairs.”

They make it as far as the library on the second floor before Sirius has had enough and pulls him into the room. Besides, Remus still has his cup of tea to drink and it’ll be easier for him to do so lying on the settee instead of a bed. Or by a hippogriff. Details.

Remus is thoughtful and grabs the throw blanket from one of the chairs as they settle on the cushions. Sirius is quick to notice that his companion keeps his hands appropriately above the waist; Sirius immediately misses the way Remus’ fingers used to trace runes on the soft skin of his thighs and on his lower back. They used to joke, Sirius remembers, that one day he would go out and get a tramp stamp, something vulgar enough that would make Remus blush every time he saw it.

Time had caught up too quickly, the war had caught up to quickly. He didn’t feel the need any more to ink memories onto his skin that were already there in bruised and scarred flesh.

He can feel his werewolf’s heartbeat through the threadbare cotton of his worn Oxford shirt. The heat that Remus emits warms him to the bone, the way whiskey hasn’t been able to anymore, and comforts him like a lullaby. The light coming through the dusty, spotted stained glass makes Remus up in shades of golds and browns. If there is any moment that Sirius would like to keep clear in his mind for the rest of his (possibly short) life, it would be a moment like this one, where time doesn’t necessarily exist.


End file.
